


As the heavy horses thunder by; With the living horseman's cry

by Splat_Dragon



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Animal Husbandry, Ardennes horse, Based off my own horse, Buying a horse, Female Reader, Fluff, Horsemanship, Hosea is a dad, LOVE HIM, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 06:15:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23846578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: Hosea’d only ever been kind to you, surely you were working yourself up over nothing? “I… see, there’s this horse I’ve been eyeing over at the Scarlett Horse Shop,” wait, did he know which stable that was? “The, uh, the one in Lemoyne? Down by Rhodes?” he nodded, looking amused, and you were sure you were redder than Kieran’s Branwen, “Thing is, I can ride ‘em, and I can steal ‘em, but I don’t know a single damn thing about how to tell if they’re a good horse or not. And, well, I ain’t gonna throw away money on a shit horse, ya know? Can’t just sell it back to Clay, I’d be lucky to get a dollar for it.”Hosea chuckled, and nodded—Clay was a hell of a cheat, and the only reason the lot of you sold horses to him was because it was safer than trying to sell a stolen horse to the stables and risk getting caught it; if he got caught with the stolen horses, then it was his neck on the line. He gestured at you as though to say both ‘and?’ and ‘go on’, so you hurried to. “Well, I was hoping, if you have the time of course, I know you’re busy, that you could come give him a look-over before I buy him? I think he’s a good horse, but, well, I don’t really know.”
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	As the heavy horses thunder by; With the living horseman's cry

###  _As the heavy horses thunder by With the living horseman's cry_  
~Heavy Horses, Jethro Tull

“Mr. Hosea?”

The old(er, never, ever call him straight up old, he’d have you strung up before you could say ‘oops’) man paused in his reading, looking up at you, though he didn’t even need to hear your voice to know it was you; you’d not been with the gang long, only a month or so, but you’d gotten rather attached to him in that time. It wasn’t uncommon for him to look up and find that you’d chosen a seat near him, stretched out and polishing your guns, or reading or writing, stitching your clothes or any number of the chores you did in camp.

In the short amount of time you’d been with them, he’d come to learn that you were not one for idle work, for women’s work. Give you a gun or a bow and a horse between your legs, and you’d be happy. He could see you quickly becoming one of Dutch’s new golden children, being as you were one of the youngest members in the gang, only just older than Lenny, and already having scraped in a decent amount of money. Hosea could see Arthur in you, the need to prove yourself, that they hadn’t made a mistake taking you in.

He hoped that Dutch didn’t ruin you, too.

  
  


“Need something, my dear?” he asked, marking his page and setting his book aside. You didn’t have a gun in your hands, only your usual pistol on your hips, so he didn’t think you were going to ask him to come with you on a heist (not that he had any sort of issue with it, it was actually nice to stretch his legs every once in a while), but you sounded even more uncertain than unusual, which was rather impressive.

“Do you have a moment?”

He nodded, patting the dirt besides his bedroll to invite you to sit, putting his book on the crate that served as a night stand. “Of course, what do you need?”

Even as you sat, you shifted, feeling the fool and looking around. There, Javier was plucking his guitar by the campfire, Arthur sketching in that journal of his. Dutch was smoking a cigar by his tent, Charles playing his harmonica (and you were certain he did that while Javier was playing to get under everyone’s skins, but he’d never admit it and no one would believe him if he said so besides) and even Trelawney was there for once, fiddling with a deck of cards.

So many people you could have asked, and you had to bother Hosea of all people! Arthur knew horses, knew them well, you could have asked him, though he was so busy, in your short time it hadn’t escaped you that he did the brunt of the work and you’d tried to shoulder some of it for him, and for yourself and the gang as well of course, but asking Hosea? One of the leaders? How presumptuous! How foolish!

But he was looking at you, and you’d look even more foolish if you changed your mind and bolted, so you crossed your legs, not caring that you didn’t look lady-like, who cared to be lady-like? you were in jeans, so it wasn’t as though you were giving him a show, but oh! he could see your ankles, the indecency! Why, you ought to just keel over now and save your ancestors the shame, you’d robbed, you’d murdered, but oh! you’d shown a man your ankles!

...yeah, you were getting off track. Hosea’d only ever been kind to you, surely you were working yourself up over nothing? “I… see, there’s this horse I’ve been eyeing over at the Scarlett Horse Shop,” wait, did he know which stable that was? “The, uh, the one in Lemoyne? Down by Rhodes?” he nodded, looking amused, and you were sure you were redder than Kieran’s Branwen, “Thing is, I can ride ‘em, and I can steal ‘em, but I don’t know a single damn thing about how to tell if they’re a good horse or not. And, well, I ain’t gonna throw away money on a shit horse, ya know? Can’t just sell it back to Clay, I’d be lucky to get a dollar for it.”

Hosea chuckled, and nodded—Clay was a hell of a cheat, and the only reason the lot of you sold horses to him was because it was safer than trying to sell a stolen horse to the stables and risk getting caught it; if he got caught with the stolen horses, then it was his neck on the line. He gestured at you as though to say both _‘and?’_ and _‘go on’_ , so you hurried to. “Well, I-I was hoping, if you have the time of course, I know you’re busy, that you could come give him a look-over before I buy him? I think he’s a good horse, but, well, I don’t really know.”

The man started to laugh, in that low, rasping way of his, and you could have crawled into a hole and died. You’d been right, you should have asked Arthur, or Charles, or even Javier or, hell, even Clive, though Clay talked his brother down you tended to get along with him and it was obvious he had a great deal of horse sense, you’d known the two long before joining the gang so maybe you could ask a favor? They did owe you a few, after all?

“Of course,” he shook his head, “You had me thinkin’ you were goin’ to ask me to take you out back and shoot ya, from how worried you seemed,” and you couldn’t help the startled laugh that tore from your throat,

“No, never!” if you’d ever needed that, you’d ask Micah, he’d probably agree in a heartbeat, though after a moment’s thought maybe someone else, he seemed the type to play with his prey, drag them around until they begged for death, you hadn’t been with them long but it was clear that Micah was nothing shy of a snake—and not the good kind, you actually didn’t mind snakes so long as they kept well clear of you and your horse, but the kind that snuck into birds’ nests and ate their eggs, cowards all.

“When were you wanting to go?” he asked, looking thoughtful, like your ma used to when she was going over her planner, “I can’t go tonight, it’s gettin’ too late anyways, and tomorrow I said I would take Arthur hunting and that’ll take us through the weekend, probably. Is Monday alright?”

You nodded, quickly, probably too quickly from the way his grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, “Yeah, yeah of course, I can take some work in Rhodes while I wait? I still have my bounty license and there’s always a ton there,” working as an outlaw _and_ a bounty hunter always gave you a bit of a laugh, but it worked! Having someone slung over the back of your horse always got you some side-eyes, sometimes a gun cocked your way, but more often than not a flash of your badge had you safely on your way, whether it was actually bounty business or not, and of course it tended to keep you in good standing with lawmen and sheriffs, so when things went missing or you played at being an outlaw, it wasn’t you they looked for.

And, besides, when you saw your… could you call them family? That was what Dutch preached, but you had only been with them such a short time, and though most of them were nice enough, could you claim to be family? Hell, could you even claim them as friends? as it were, when you saw their posters, you could tear them down in front of anyone under the guise of intending on hunting them down without being questioned.

  
  


Come Monday, you waited atop your mare not far from the Scarlett Horse Shop. Of course you already had a horse, you’d have died a long time ago without one, had had several actually, some of them dying, others sold off to the Davies brothers after proving themselves unsuitable for a lifestyle such as yours. And while Rosie was a good horse, a Walker at that with a decent running walk, but having a second horse could never hurt and, besides, different horse breeds had different uses and she could do with a sturdier horse for train robbing and bounty hunting, jumping off a train onto such a small horse was a feat in and of itself. And, seeing as you hunted both for profit and to feed the gang, having a horse on which you could throw extra carcasses and hides on would be a great help.

You hadn’t let the stablemaster know that you were coming that day, and hadn’t let him see you as you rode up, either. While you’d never actually bought a horse from a stable—they’d all been stolen, broken, ‘gifted’, or taken from folks what didn’t need them anymore, it didn’t take a fool to realize that giving him time to hide anything wrong with the horse wasn’t a good idea. Rosie had actually been one of the gang’s ‘spare’ horses, kept around in case one of the girls needed to go riding, or one of the men’s horses were down or had just come back from a long ride or any other number of reasons. You’d grabbed Rosie for a wagon robbery—Thomas, the Morgan you’d had when you joined the gang, was damn near useless when it came to gunfire, and you’d intended on handing him off to the Davies brothers the moment you could, and fallen in love with her temperament, her sturdiness and the running walk she’d fallen into without any prompting.

_Technically_ , the spares weren’t supposed to get names, much less become someone’s main horse, but Thomas had become infamous before you’d been with them for two weeks and so they’d made an exception, and you hadn’t felt terribly sorry for selling Thomas off to Clay.

  
  


Hosea called out a greeting as he rode up to you, not wanting to risk getting shot. He was right on time—you’d learned quickly that, while a con-man and a shyster, he never broke a promise to his gang. Silver Dollar whickered at Rosie, who returned the greeting, raising her head. As you’d grown attached to Hosea, looking to him as a father-figure, she’d taken to Silver Dollar as well.

“I really appreciate this, Hosea,” you said again, as you hitched your mare to the posts, and the man shook his head, clapping you on the shoulder as he followed you to the barn,

“Any time!” he chuckled, before calling out a greeting to the stablemaster as the man walked out of the barn. The man welcomed you back, and the surprised pride on Hosea’s face when he referred to you by an alias had you standing just that little bit taller although, you thought, perhaps you should have told him ahead of time, it wouldn’t have been good if he’d called you the wrong name.

“Now, who might this be?” the scruffy man asked, and Hosea offered his hand as he replied,

“Melvin, Melvin McGinty, my daughter here asked me to look over a horse before she bought it.” the stablemaster grinned, shook his hand,

“Good man, I’m Eris Feldman, here to see the same horse as always?” and you couldn’t help but to grin sheepishly, nodding. You came by the stable’s often, wanting to keep Rosie in good shape and, with all the hard riding you did, that meant you had to get her serviced regularly, and he always cared for her like she was his own horse.

“Yessir,” and he chuckled,

“He’s in his stall, follow me.” and you did, Hosea in front of you. The barn wasn’t the fanciest barn, not by a long-shot, but you liked it better than a lot of the other stables in the surrounding states because it led out to a nice paddock, thick with grass, not dust or dirt. The Strawberry stables were nice, too, but their paddocks were all dust, no grass to be seen, and the stables in Saint Denis, while fancy on the inside, had no paddocks to speak of period, same as the one in Blackwater.

The gelding raised his head and nickered at you happily, and you crooned a ‘hey boy,” as you stroked his nose, Hosea looking the horse over. Just from his stall he could tell it was a massive thing, just under seventeen hands and standing taller than you at the shoulder, bulky and muscular, probably some sort of war breed—and with how large it was he already knew he’d be much more critical than if it was a smaller horse; a large horse was harder to handle, even if it were well-behaved.

“This is Cliff, though of course you’re welcome to call him whatever you want,” the stablemaster introduced, grabbing the horse’s halter and leading him out of the stall. Hosea watched his stride, looking for any sign of lameness, of limping, if the horse had been used for any sort of hauling before it would be easy for it to have been made lame. Its hooves thumped heavily on the ground, but that was to be expected of such a massive horse, and _christ_ but its hooves were the size of dinner plates. “He’s an Ardennes, five years old and gelded. We started him under saddle at three years old,” and that was a good thing, and Hosea nodded appreciatively, though you looked at him, tilting your head—why did he like that so much? “He’s fully trained for riding, and has been desensitized to gunfire.”

Of course that was needed in their line of work, but you’d need to test if he was telling the truth before forking over the money for the horse.

  
  


Eris led Cliff outside for you to get a better look at him in the sunlight, and Hosea looked him over with a critical eye. He was a handsome enough horse, a bay roan if he was right, head and some of his neck orange-red, most of him powdered over an off-white, mane black fading to white, tail the opposite, but looks didn’t matter much in horses; he fully believed in the saying that ‘there’s no such thing as an ugly good horse,’ and while Cliff was pretty enough an ugly, scarred up horse could be the best horse you’d ever own.

“What’ll you be usin’ him for?” Eris asked as Hosea ran his fingers along the geldings legs, picking them up to look at his hooves—he was freshly shod—and you shrugged,

“Some of everything. I hunt, mostly, but I do a bit of bounty work now and then, which is why I like the looks of him. Need a sturdy horse. Love my Rosie, of course,” you tilted your head at the red roan Walker, “but she’s not the sturdiest,” Eris nodded.

Hosea called to you, and you approached him, heart in your stomach—you’d sworn you wouldn’t get attached to the horse for fear of it having some fault that made it unsuitable, but at some point the Ardennes had won your heart. “Here, see this?” he pressed on the frog of Cliff’s hoof, had you do the same, felt it move beneath your fingers, “that’s what you want it to feel like. And what the hoof should look like, anyways. No cracks or nothin’,” and you grinned, so far he was passing muster it seemed like!

He tugged you back to stand and look at how Cliff was standing, “Now, see how he’s standin’? Never even think of buy a horse who stands any other way, some horses stand with their legs well ahead of them. You ever see a horse like that, you walk right away and don’t buy a horse from that stable ever, that’s a sick horse and it’ll go out from under you ‘for you make it home.” you nodded seriously, trying to picture a horse standing that way, but couldn’t, although it sounded like it was distinct enough that you’d be able to recognize it when you saw it.

“That’s called founder,” Eris called out, approaching and patting Cliff on the neck, “where their hooves get all swolle’ up, hurts ‘em somethin’ fierce, kindest to put ‘em down when they get it. Usually see it in fat horses, or unshod work horses,” he frowned, picking up Cliff’s hooves to give them a quick lookover, and you grinned at Hosea proudly— _see?_ you seemed to say, _this is why I come to him even when the other stables are closer, he gives a damn!_ —and he shook his head with a pat on your shoulder.

  
  


Carefully, Hosea reached for the gelding’s face—he didn’t know if he was head shy, which would be a deal-breaker if he was, of course, and didn't fancy being bitten. But while Cliff eyed him as though to say _‘what do you think you’re doing old man?’_ he allowed him to do so, urging him to open his mouth so he could examine his teeth.

“Here, see? You want to make sure he’s not got any lumps or wounds in his mouth, those are from bad teeth and can make even the sweetest horse sour. And always check a horse’s teeth, make sure they ain’t too long, or too short or worn, and that there ain’t any missin’.”

“And see his eyes?” he let the horse close his mouth, stroking his velvety nose to thank him for being such a good sport about it, “they should be clear and bright, means he can see you and won’t kick you clear across camp just for the sin of walking up to him.” you snorted, “Well, at least he shouldn’t.”

Hosea patted Cliff on the neck, gesturing you to follow him as he led you to the horse’s side, running his fingers down his flank, “Here, feel his ribs?” You nodded with a ‘yeah’, and scratched his fur for good measure, “That’s what you want, but you shouldn’t be able to see them easily, that means he’s underweight. If you can’t feel them, though, or if you have to make an effort too, then he’s too heavy.” His lips twitched up into a grin, and you eyed him warily, “It’s why you don’t want to buy from Saint Denis’ stable, all the horses there’ll be fat as their masters.”

Eris gave a startled bark of laughter.

Hosea allowed his fingers to run along some of the gelding’s muscles appreciatively, before scratching his shoulder to thank him for putting up with his inspection and stepping back. “Can she ride him?” and you brightened—so you had his approval? Well, at least so far?

“A’course,” Eris nodded, and disappeared into the nearby shack to grab his tack, and you turned to Hosea.

“So... what-what do you think of him so far?”

Hosea hesitated, thinking, “Well, he seems like he’s in good shape. Good teeth, good hooves, good build. And seems like he has a good temperament, considering he let me manhandle him.” You perked up—so he liked him? “Although are you sure you can handle _so much_ horse? He is pretty big.”

“I’ve ridden bigger!” you were quick to say, “I’ve had a few Shires, and they’re a lot bigger. ‘Sides, a big horse’ll be useful for my bounty hunting, don’t you think? And for,” you looked to the tack shed, “for trick ridin’ and things.” Even though Eris was out of earshot, it was better to be safe than sorry.

He nodded, had to acquiesce, “Just gotta make sure you can handle him first, he’s a different breed, so he’ll handle differently.”

“Yessir,” you hummed, watching as Eris returned, massive saddle in hand. And it _was_ true, while Cliff was smaller than the Shires, he was wider, and squatter, so he’d be a lot different when it came to turning, jumping, and all those important things.

Eris helped you to tack Cliff up, with Hosea standing nearby to watch the horse, see how he reacted. Make sure he didn’t have any common vices—didn’t suck in his breath so the belly-strap would be loose, didn’t stamp his hooves or pull his head back when you reached up to put the bit in his mouth. But though the flesh of his stomach twitched as you cinched the strap, he stood still aside from the flicking of his tail to swat away flies, happily accepting a sugar cube you offered him when you finished.

Grabbing his lead-rope, you led him to the paddock, testing how he followed, and though he was much larger than you he followed along like a loyal hound, strides short to account for your slow pace, although he did lower his head to snuffle at your pocket in search of further treats he stopped when you pushed his massive head away, blowing as though in apology.

“Alright, let’s see you ride him then, up you get!” Hosea called, leaning on the fence after closing the gate behind you. It took a bit of a hop to get your foot into the stirrup, but you wouldn’t always have the luxury of a stump or fence to help you reach his saddle, and that was a nasty habit to get into besides, so you got comfortable in his saddle, giving him a moment to adjust to your weight. He was a bit wide between your legs, but you’d get used to it eventually, you knew.

“Good boy,” you crooned, stretched forward to scratch his neck—and carefully test how he’d react to a drastic change in balance on his back.

“Walk him,” Hosea called your name, “just see how he rides at first,” and so you did, cueing him to walk. He did so readily, beginning to plod forward beneath you. Like any war horse you’d ridden, his stride wasn’t the smoothest, but that was to be expected and so you adjusted for it, moving with him easily. Hosea’s eyes burned holes in you as you rode him slowly around the paddock once, and once you looked up to find him staring at Cliff, eyeing his legs, his body, his stride.

“Trot him,” he called out simply as you passed him, having finished a walking lap, and so you squeezed your calves to speed him up, but he didn’t speed up, continuing to trot, and your heart sunk to your stomach, you’d gotten your hopes up, he’d been so _perfect_

“Kiss him,” Eris was quick to correct you, and you clicked your tongue with a squeeze of your calves in time with his stride and that time he obeyed his stride picking up into a bouncing trot that you were quick to post, not wanting to rattle your teeth out of your head. You loved wars, they were nice for hard work, but christ if they weren’t painful trotters! You could see Hosea frowning, and knew what he was thinking, and agreed—you’d have to train him out of the kiss, he’d need to learn to respond to _just_ body cues, but he couldn’t be perfect.

He trotted a ring around the paddock once, twice, three times, and you found yourself worrying, had Hosea noticed something you hadn’t? Was there something that had been hid by the bounce of his trot? But, finally, as you passed him a fourth time, he called out “Canter,” and you forgot to cluck as you cued him to canter, but he still did as asked and you wondered if he’d only been trained to respond to a kiss for a trot and _why_ , but his canter was much smoother, rocking beneath you as you shifted from the post to sit deep in his saddle, enjoying the swaying motion—you’d always enjoyed war horse’s canters, they were always nice, riding him a few times around the paddock.

  
  


“Alright,” Hosea called out, and you eased him to a stop in front of the pair; from the amused look on your ‘father’s’ face you were beaming from ear to ear but you couldn’t help it, you’d had a blast!

“You can use the fence if you need to see how he jumps,” Eris offered, and some of the tension left your shoulders even as you looked at Hosea, who nodded. That was very important in… well, everything you did, to be quite honest, so you trotted him to the far side of the paddock and kissed him into a trot, shifting as he leaped the fence, his landing rather harsh, cueing him into a canter and swinging him around, jumping the fence again and finding the landing much kinder to your everything, throwing a thumbs-up to Hosea before walking Cliff up to them with a fond thump to his neck.

  
  


“He rides beautifully, what do you think?” Hosea asked, although from the quirk of his lips you knew you were still beaming,

“His trot is a bit rough,” you admitted, “but I was expecting that.” and he inclined his head, glad that you’d been honest. “Need to try his gallop.”

“Mr. Feldman (“Call me Eris”) said we’re welcome to use the driveway to give him a run,” he gestured to the wide pathway and you nodded, looking to see if there were any deer, why deer were so attracted to that spot you hadn’t a clue, before cueing him into a trot, then a canter, and then a gallop that took your breath away, so smooth that you barely felt the movement of his hindquarters, stretching out with him and laughing, swinging him around and racing back to the pair, easing him to a stop though you wanted to gallop forever—he wasn’t fast, not faster than Rosie by halves, but his gallop was so wonderfully smooth you felt you could ride it for hours.

“How does it feel?” Hosea asked, and you nodded,

“Felt nice, ain’t got any complaints about it.” you swung down from your perch, patting the gelding on the neck and crooning love words as you led him back into the paddock, Hosea walking behind the pair of you to see how the horse walked over a decent work-out, whether he’d gone stiff or any sort of lame.

“You want to use my gun, or yours?” Eris asked Hosea, while you turned the gelding out into the pasture, patting him on the rump to send him trotting in without you. Hosea pulled out his own pistol in reply,

“I’d rather use mine, since it’s what he’ll be hearing,” and Eris nodded, the both of you stepping back as Hosea aimed his gun at a tree not far away, firing one, two, three times, keeping a critical eye on the Ardennes.

Cliff raised his head from where he’d been grazing, staring at Hosea in some sort of alarm, ears up and eyes wide. But he didn’t buck, didn’t rear or bolt, and that was good enough. A horse that _didn’t_ react would be as bad as one that fled or fought you, so you grinned, jogging into the pasture to bring him back as Hosea holstered his gun.

  
  


Eris hung back to give you a moment to talk, and you looked at Hosea hopefully as you stroked along the ruddy fur of Cliff’s neck, “What do you think?” you asked hopefully, praying that he’d give Cliff the Official Hosea Matthews Stamp of Approval™.

“Well,” he said, giving him a final look over, “He rides beautifully, though you’d need to train the kiss out of his trot,” you nodded, already knowing that, “and I can’t find anything wrong with him, his hooves and his teeth and his body are all good.” Your eyes widened, hand stilling on his neck. “And he didn’t react much to my gun.”

He seemed to get sick of holding you in suspense, and nodded, “I think he’s a good horse, well worth the money.”

You beamed, fought the urge to whoop, and despite yourself, hugged him. He stiffened, startled, but patted you on the back.

  
  


When Eris came inside, you were quick to say you’d decided to purchase the gelding, handing over the money and, after a moment’s thought, choosing to rename him, ‘Cassim’ fit the horse a helluva lot better than ‘Cliff’, and paid for some new take as well seeing as Rosie’s wouldn’t fit him by a long shot.

Rosie stared him down when you led him out to her, giving him a true mare face, but he didn’t react any, and so she acquiesced to trot beside him as you followed Hosea back to camp, sitting tall and proud atop your new horse, unable to wipe the grin from your face.

  
  


As it turned out, Cassim was bulletproof except when it came to wolves. You came back one day, soaked to the bone with mud, scowling, a stack of wolf pelts on his rump.


End file.
